I dread the day you come to ask about the end,
when light loses luster and sound becomes hollow.
Will your question be crafted from simple curiosity
or from a black embrace swallowing tomorrow’s hope?
I could say it searches for us all and never fails.
I could say it is the last stop to any journey,
none shorter or longer than another, but all trying.
I could say it has no prejudice, no ambition,
that it is simply another step on the stairs we climb,
and like all others it must be passed to continue.
But you’ll ask “Why?”, and there I’ll stumble.
Why does inevitable carry any meaning?
Why must we walk free but end the road blind?
To this I’ll have no response, no easing words,
but that also is the nature of the unknown end:
it looms ahead like some threatening storm,
but all that can be seen is the outermost wall,
and the weather beyond no man can claim to know.
No, I’m not ready for such questions, not yet,
and even on that day the words won’t come,
and we’ll be no better off at the end than when we started.